Category Archives: Bishop Zurek

The straw house fell in yesterday’s gale, And I was quick to tell the tale Of others’ beams and others’ flaws—While hiding cracks in my own laws. Ash on brow and dust within, The mask grows thin, the work begins. Not for applause nor trumpet sound—But brick by brick, on hidden ground.

Guard not your loaf while your heart lies bare; The wind outside is less than the wind of prayer. Pharisee pride and Herod’s throne—Leaven spreads where love has not grown. Remember the fragments. Remember the Bread. Guard the soul — or the light goes dead.

Forsythia flames in February air, A yellow whisper against gray despair. No thunder rolls, no trumpet rings—Just quiet bloom of hidden springs. He sighed and left without a sign—Yet still He turns the winter vine. The blossom says what heaven meant: Prepare the soil. The King has sent.

My righteousness once tried to surpass a throne, But Christ surpassed my pride instead. To enter Heaven I must lay it down— And let my “Yes” be simply said.

Seven loaves in a desert wide,
Snow tracks cut where saints abide, An old priest walks—slow, dignified— And hungry hearts are satisfied.

Ephphatha—not a crack in the door but the door torn wide. He touched what I guarded and opened what I hid. Now I hear— and must speak.

Not every feast arrives with silver and flame—
sometimes grace falls quiet beneath the table. Lord, make me small enough to kneel where crumbs become miracles.

Nothing outside can stain my soul—yet pride can darken all I do. Lourdes springs rise from humble ground; let mercy rise from me too.

Tradition is not the ashes of the fire, but the fire itself— passed hand to hand, heart to heart, until love lights the night.

I did not grasp the whole truth—I brushed its hem. And that was enough to feel my life begin again.